“Shut up and stop breathing.”

Nicholas howls with laughter. I’m so upset that he’s not afraid of me and taking the end of his life more seriously that I hop up and down on him in reprimand.

Nicholas rolls and catches my hands before they can shoot out and strangle him. He laces our fingers together, grinning crookedly. “You should see what you look like right now,” he tells me.

A murderous Jack Frost, probably. The image ignites another bout of anger, and I wrestle for control of my hands. He doesn’t let go, tightening his fingers. “Stop stopping me from destroying you.”

Tears leak down either side of his face as he laughs, cheeks pink, breath pluming up in white puffs. It hits me how much I like his laugh. His smile. His smile is ordinary when taken in on its own, but combined with the adorable laugh lines, the light that glows in his color-changing eyes, it’s remarkable.

Some of the leaves I’ve been messing with have pine needles hidden in them, and they’ve prickled my palms, making them itchy. I rub my hands on either side of his jaw, using his stubble like a scratching post. Nicholas’s eyebrows go up in disbelief, more tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He stares and stares at me. “You’re bananas,” he says, not unkindly.

I snort. I have never heard him call anybody bananas. He’s called me ridiculous half a million times, but bananas is so silly a term that I start cry-laughing, too.

He grins wider. “What?”

“You’re a fopdoodle.”

We both laugh. “I saw it on the Internet somewhere,” I insist. “It’s a real word.”

“Your mom’s a real word.”

“Your mom’s a real bad word.”

He lets go of one of my hands so he can wipe his eyes. “Touché.” Then he asks, “What does fopdoodle mean?”

“I assume it’s a fop who doodles.”

“Naturally.”

I get off him. When he sits up, I shove him backward and hurry off to the house, cackling over my cheat of a head start. I know the first thing he’ll want to do when he gets inside is take a hot shower, so I beat him there. I’m stripping off my clothes the second I get inside, shaking like a leaf with my wet hair, and lock myself in the bathroom. Muah-ha-ha. Now he’ll have to wait. I’m going to take an hourlong shower and use up all the hot water.

The shower has just gotten hot enough to be pleasantly scalding when Nicholas unlocks the bathroom door and bursts inside. We’ve got one of those doorknobs you can pick by sticking a penny into the notch and turning it. I use this trick whenever I need something from the bathroom and he’s shut himself in there to shave or admire himself in the mirror, but I don’t think I appreciate being on the other end of it.

“Hey!” I squeak, trying to cover all my interesting parts with my hands. The glass shower door is all steamed up, so I’m probably just a flesh-colored blur to him. “I could’ve been going number two in here.”

“With the shower running?”

“You never know.”

My eyes are as big as pumpkins when he peels off his dripping coveralls and rips a flannel shirt over his head. Stomach. Chest. Arms. So much bare skin going on here and I’m not complaining about any of it. Being wilderness bros with Leon and playing with axes and power tools has been kind to him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking a shower.”

“I’m already in here.”

“Good for you.”

Nicholas completely ignores my shock. I’m a modest and innocent puritan lady, and he’s out to steal my virtue. My mind flashes to previous episodes of not wearing clothes with Nicholas and it’s a good thing the water’s so hot, or he’d be able to tell I’m blushing. I remember how his mother has deluded herself into believing he’s a virgin, and I smirk before I can help it.

Nicholas cocks an eyebrow at me as he slides open the door and steps inside. I wait for his gaze to lower, but it doesn’t. He shakes his head in amusement, probably because I’m still trying to cover myself, then turns and starts lathering himself up with soap.

I don’t move. I need to wash my hair but that would require the use of my hands. I decide to face opposite him, minimizing what he can see. The back’s not as interesting as the front, I think.

I’m wrong about that, which becomes glaringly apparent when I catch our reflections in the shower door. He’s looking at me. My gaze slides below his waist without my permission and it’s clear he’s found something about his view to appreciate.

“Don’t look at me,” I hiss.

His laugh is deep and rich-sounding in the acoustics of our foggy bathroom. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“How do you know unless you’re looking, too?” He reaches for my conditioner.

I spin around and take it from him. “This is mine and it’s expensive. Get your own.” He smiles like he wants to laugh because I’ve slipped up with the placement of my hands, so I quickly cover his eyes. He squints under my palm, nose scrunching.

“I can still see.”

“Jesus.” I turn around again.

“Yes?”

I want to stomp on his foot. My only course of action here is to hurry up so I can escape. I try to bend over a little to make myself smaller, because in my mind that gives him less to see, sneaking glances at him in the shower door. He’s washing himself more slowly than he ever has in his life, staring openly. I think he’s trying to get me flustered. If so, it’s working. I slip a hand behind me, trying to span my fingers over my rear and block him from anything enjoyable, which just makes him laugh again.

“Close your eyes,” I demand.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t close his eyes.

“Close them!”

“I did.”

(He didn’t.)

I need to rinse my hair, but he’s standing directly under the spray, giving me very little room to maneuver. I plant a hand on his chest and he’s immediately compliant, falling back. Nicholas’s skin is hot satin under my fingertips, responding to my touch with goose bumps and a quickening pulse. I want to sink my nails into the slightest bit of give his flesh offers, but right now every flinch, every step and turn and tilt conveys a primal message. He’s waiting for the signal that says Help yourself to whatever you want. Don’t be wasteful. Lick me up to the last drop.